#3
As I put myself back together, I found I didn't want to look in the mirror anymore. I was ashamed to see 'him' looking at me. I couldn't look 'him' in the eye. I had let 'him' down.

Who was 'he' to look at me that way? How dare 'he' be so reproachful. Hadn't we been through enough? Weren't the deeply etched lines and scars on both our faces? Where does 'he' get off being so much better than me?

Who was this 'he'?
Why did we not think it was me?

So I looked in the mirror. And looked some more. Yes, there were the new contours wrought by my attackers. I measured them. Five millimeters. Just five.

After several weeks of thinking about it, I decided to start a ritual of care. I swapped my razors for a straight razor and strop. I get up every morning, no matter how I feel. I clean and shave. I go outside, even if I have no where to go.

Why did I think I was someone else? Why did I feel I couldn't look at my own face? What did any of this have to do with basic caveman survival? I may never know, but once I got used to it, I never noticed the stranger in the mirror again.